Origins
by Kitt SummerIsle
Summary: Each bot in the Autobot army has his story of how he became what he is. Some stories are secrets from most, some even from the mechs themselves. Aerialbots AU history.
1. Patterns

**Title**: Origins 1 - Patterns

**Author**: Kit SummerIsle

**Rating**: T

**Continuity**: G1-ish, pre-Earth

**Warnings**: mentioning of torture, mind-wipe, violence (not detailed)

* * *

**1. Patterns**

* * *

**Prisoner**

Jazz was thoroughly disgusted by what he saw and it wasn't easy to get that reaction out of the hardened spec ops commander. He had done his fair share of interrogations, hacked Con prisoners for info, bent the rules a bit when they caught someone important, like an intelligence officer or a commanding one or when the Autobots desperately needed some info… but this small Seeker in front of him, cowering in the energon-splattered corner of the cell, blind, mute but still producing staticky, small sounds of terror, was neither important nor knowing anything. Someone has made a thoroughly messy, brutal work of his interrogation, substituting sadism for professionalism and he had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't even find records of it either – and not only because of the damage the base suffered in the last attack. No mech, no Autobot could expect to get away with … this.

Hacking easily into the mech's processor – he had no defenses left, pain and claustrophobia ate it all away into rust – just to get his designation and make sure he was just as unimportant as he supposed him to be the spec ops officer withdrew quickly, not wanting to harm the mech any more. Frag. What was he going to do with him now? One memory bit cling to his awareness, coming from the Seeker – something shiny on a wall, flashing in the sunlight coming through a door. Nothing important – probably just the last thing he saw before his optics were broken. He considered the broken, abused body clinically, weighing whether it was worth repairing or not when a piece of info came up on the scan and almost felled the veteran officer. Primus! He looked at the mech, seeing him in a new light and a resolve solidified in his processor. With deft digits he sealed the most serious injuries that were still leaking energon, winced at the sight of the tattered remains of the mech's wings, feed him a cube and called a medic.

Presenting his report to the Prime has never been so hard than this time, even though it wasn't his doing – technically it was his department, even though he couldn't have known every single interrogation specialists in every base. He knew quite well that Optimus Prime never approved of the harsher methods of interrogation, although he understood the necessities of war. But he has always drawn the line at physical torture, making all his spec ops understand that it was something he would not tolerate. Coercion, deception, intimidation, all the psychological methods he accepted, albeit with great reluctance; hacking he accepted as a necessity when it was important; but no more. Unfortunately this time it was far more.

"Jazz, I hope this wasn't authorized by anyone. Bad enough it happened, but…"

"No, Prime, nothing like that. Ah was sent there ta clean up after the Con attack and found this… situation accidentally. No records, no mech assuming responsibility, although some of them knew about a prisoner. They said that he was picked up after the battle at Saltihex."

Optimus Prime looked shocked. – "That was several orns ago."

"Ah know. His condition shows just how much time's passed. But that's not all, Prime…" – Jazz was uneasy, hesitating even though he was determined to tell everything. – "He is less than a vorn old. Basically a youngling…."

"What?" – Jazz has never seen Optimus Prime so distressed. Sparklings and younglings were so few since the war started, but they were cherished even before it. To know that a youngster was tortured in an Autobot's servo was their greatest failure. He too was sick to his tank by it.

"A few groons ago the Cons somehow sparked a few batches of fliers, mostly Seekers and accelerated their growth ta have physically adult mechs in a few groons. Skyrunner, as is his designation, came from one of those groups. They were uploaded with a superficial education, pressed into wings, forced ta fight, even though he, and his wingmates hardly have any idea about the war or why it is fought. The Cons used them like throwaway corps, as they hardly had any training even in flying, much less in fighting…"

"We must set it right, Jazz. Each youngling deserves to at least know why he is brought online and what he can choose to do."

"Aye Sir. Ah think it wouldn't be hard ta explain that to him once he realizes that we mean no harm."

* * *

**Patient**

Skyrunner came online with a blessed silence from his systems which were for once not clamoring for his attention. All the better as he could do nothing about the error messages and damage reports, only shunt them to the background of his world – the foreground of which was mostly occupied with pain and terror. The terror was still there, but the pain seemed to be lessened, from the unbearable level to a dull, general ache. Slowly he took stock of his body and found the reason for the absence of damage reports – he was being repaired which must mean that he was freed somehow. How, he had no idea, as he knew that there would be no rescue mission for him; he was far too insignificant in the Decepticon army for anyone to lift a single servo for.

But when he cautiously unshuttered his optics, the vista he saw was not one that he expected. The repair bay was not the dark, cluttered one he saw a few times in his short life, but light and airy with a pretty silver design on the ceiling. It was nice – but it frightened him too. New has always equaled painful in his experience and he didn't want any more pain. Noticing the shape of the medic and the red insignia on it he froze in a fresh wave of terror – he was still a prisoner of the Autobots. A whimper broke past his once again working vocalizer and Skyrunner regretted it as soon as it was out; the medic turned towards him at the sound and moved by the med berth he was restrained on. Why would the Autobots fix him… after torturing him for answers he didn't have?

"How do you feel?" – the question was so unexpected that Skyrunner had no idea how to answer. The medic seemed to notice his fear-widened optics and the way he was drawing away from him as much as he was capable in the restraints. – "I don't mean to hurt you. We repaired your injuries which by the way were caused illegally – we do not torture prisoners."

Yeah. Just like he would believe that after what they did during the last several – he wasn't sure how many, as his internal clock was turned off shortly after his capture – but at least several orns. He could guess only one reason for them to repair him though… especially when he noticed the black and white shape on the other side of the berth, the one that most Decepticons could recognize and fear – the spec ops commander, the feared interrogator… Jazz.

"I know nothing! I told you I'm nobody important!" – he whimpered again. Why was the Autobot TIC here? Who did they take him for? He was just a batch Seeker, not even one of the old ones – he would never have made it even to an officer, much less to know any secrets. Nor was his paint job in any way similar to theirs; no mech could take the cheap, dull, single colour for anything the real Seekers wore.

"Ah know." – Jazz was somber and serious and more than a bit pained by the Seeker's renewed terror. Well, he might not be the mech to calm down a terrified Con prisoner, fearing torture, but he wanted to set this thing right. – "Ah know that you have no secret left and we mean you no harm any more."

"Wha… what do you want then?" – he didn't trust the saboteur's words in the very least, it would be a folly, but he had no idea what mind-games the mech would want to play with him. Or why.

"That interrogation that you were subjected ta was illegal in our ranks. No matter what you believe or what the other Cons told you we don't torture prisoners. The one responsible was likely deactivated when the base got attacked, so we will never know why he did it – but I want ta show you that we ain't monsters."

So they wanted to turn him? It was possible, but still… why him? Skyrunner knew that he was no better than any of the batch Seekers, in fact he was one of the weaker ones – hence his capture in his very first battle. But then maybe the Autobots tried to turn every Seeker they could capture, as he heard that they had no fliers at all. His terror abated somewhat; in this case at least they would not torture him any more. He could live with that, even if it meant staying here. It is not that he had a very clear idea of why he was a Decepticon and exactly what it meant; so far nobody cared to explain it to them. – "You won't hurt me any more…?"

The hesitant, quiet, fearful question very nearly broke every spark in the med-bay, including Jazz's hardened one. The Seeker looked very much like a sparkling now, shifting his wide, frightened garnet optics from mech to mech, gauging their reactions, seeking assurances from whomever he could. The medic moved first, touching a servo briefly to the shoulder-plates, taking it away when he felt the mech flinch at his touch and answering to the plea. – "No. We won't hurt you any more."

* * *

**Recreant**

It didn't really matter if he trusted them or not, Skyrunner knew. He was still a prisoner, even though the restraints were removed and internal monitors were fitted under his plating instead. They could control him with those just as well, he was sure of it. But he wasn't sure how he was expected to behave. They encouraged him to ask, to understand matters as they said; but he didn't even know what he should ask. Or why. So far he enjoyed that nobody beat him any more and these Autobots weren't interested what was behind his interface panel either. The occasional angry or inimical bots he tried to avoid or at least not anger them with other than his mere presence. Skyrunner counted these small favors and survived; his ambitions didn't encompass any more.

They wanted him to listen to lessons about long gone things on Cybertron and political systems – fine, he could do that; after all it was far-far better than the forced downloads that he got after sparking or the painful practical lessons of how to behave in the Decepticon army. His teachers told him how much better it was to be an Autobot, how more fair and just they were and how they had the truth on their side; it all sounded nice and believable, if not for his experiences that told him to take these boasts with a pinch of salt. But he said nothing, not wanting to incur their wrath once again; Skyrunner was quite happy with reasonably pain-free living, even if he was still not trusted. Only… he saw that not everyone was satisfied with his doubting, skeptical attitude.

Jazz stayed around the Seeker for as long as he could, getting to know him, reassuring him of his good intentions, even defending his rights from other, less scrupulous officers who thought that he should be at least staying in the brig and not going around, albeit monitored all the time. Skyrunner, as he realized was not much braver or had more initiative than in the prison-cell; even after a groon he was fearful of Autobots in general and Jazz in particular. He was interested when they taught him of history and the war, but never even asked anything; like he used to be discouraged to question what he was told.

But the time came when he had to leave again – and for quite a long time, having to undertake a covert mission, deep in Decepticon territories. He couldn't think of the Seeker while on the mission and by the time he returned, close to a groon after he left, he almost forgot about him. By the time he thought to seek him out, he was gone from the base and it took all his authority as TIC to find where he was whisked away. Apparently there were other batch Seekers like him captured and they were all sent to a more secure base ostensibly for more effort to turn them to the Autobot side; but something was still tickling the experienced spec ops senses that he had and Jazz decided to pay a visit to this secret base.

* * *

**Convert**

The secret base sat innocent and sprawling on the second, smaller Moon of Cybertron, overlooking the latter's war-torn surface from the quiet of space. Jazz has never been up there and he too was curious to see the mostly peaceful base that has never so far has seen any Decepticon attacks. He had to admit that it might have been better surroundings for a couple of young mechs to convince to defect; there were far more civilians, neutrals than soldiers among the milling crowds that lived in this small city. But the Seekers that he came to see he couldn't find; not in their rooms, not in the common areas – nowhere; and he was resigned to ask.

"Commander, might Ah ask where the Seekers can be found?"

"Commander Jazz! What an honour to see you in our humble base!"

Jazz lifted an orbital ridge; it was either the worst attempt to cover something up or the base commander truly was this dense.

"The honour is mine, but Ah'd really like to find the Seekers, in particular Skyrunner."

"Ahhh… well, you see, Commander… it is not possible right now."

"Why?"

"Well… they are undergoing a reformat now."

"A reformat? Why?" – it was a drastic measure, never actually employed in the Autobot army. Not for ideological reasons; after all, it did give a chance for a new life for an individual that was judged unsalvageable mentally, but because of the dangers of the method, as it produced unstable individuals who inevitably broke and became dangerous to their side as well. The Decepticons sometimes did this with captured Autobots and used the reformatted mechs as shock troops afterwards – but that part never sat well with the Autobot sensibilities. – "Who authorized this? I wasn't aware that their reeducation failed."

"Actually, it didn't fail as much as the reformatting method got perfected – the way we planned it they would have a chance for a normal functioning."

"Ah really want to know why."

"We thought that as former Decepticons the fliers would always be considered suspicious and they would not be of much use for us. Reformatted, with a new background they would effectively be sparked as Autobots. No suspicions, no doubts, no problems."

"Only their free will would suffer. I understand. That is far less important than five new Autobot fliers." – he had hoped that the sarcasm would come through but the base commander was really dense or thick plated, because he just nodded to Jazz's words, like totally agreeing with them.

The Seeker didn't know what brought him online. He couldn't see the line that got torn and failed to supply his remaining systems with the sedatives any more, but he regained his processor slowly, sluggishly and with frightful gaps in its workings. He didn't remember his designation, the place he was or why he was there. He couldn't move a single inch in any direction; there was a strong framework supporting and restraining him and as he discovered his processor had no control over his body-movements anyway. But he felt; the remaining parts and the pain. It came from several points in his body, parts that he found he couldn't even name – his memory banks felt almost empty. Several other parts only registered as missing.

He wasn't sure that he even had a personality any more and if he still did, where did it reside. In his spark maybe – that felt like the only part of him that he could still identify and hide in. Other than that, he only felt the growing pain that wanted to swallow him whole. He wanted to panic but even that was impossible by this time; everything he was started to crumble, shatter and disappear into a nothingness that he hoped was oblivion. He, or rather that shard of personality that he was still held on in the maelstrom and it desperately wanted to scream but there was no vocalizer any more, no voice protocols, no mouth or vents to produce any kind of a sound. He held on for a while hanging on to his memory of his spark… but at the end it was all consumed by the nothingness.

Jazz looked down on the lower storey lab chamber and the dreadful vista in it. The shapes within the frameworks were immobile and deadly silent among the energon feed lines and spark monitors that were the only sign of them being living beings. Engineers and medics moved around them, removing and exchanging parts, mods, plates, systems; reshaping the protoforms themselves too to be compatible. The base's impressive AI was connected to their helms, shredding their former personalities, deleting the previous data and reformatting the protocols to the new rules. Carefully crafted characters and memories took the place of the Decepticon youngsters, each tailored for the best fusion with the sparks that were going to be the only remaining pieces from their former lives. It has always been the most critical part of the reformatting process and the one creating the most fractures and instability in the new personalities.

Jazz understood what the scientists said about stabilizing the reformats and even admitted to himself that it might even work – but still he couldn't help but feel a conscience, one that he hardly ever felt since the war started. It might really be good for them to have a completely new life, he tried to convince himself. They would be an Autobot gestalt, sparked by Vector Sigma, accelerated to be adults and be able to fight within a vorn – keeping their cover story as close to the original truth as they could. They would not be untrustworthy Seekers always watched with suspicion, but they could be trusted comrades and valuable aerial troops. They could forget a hard, harsh younglinghood and even the torture some of them were subjected to.

He understood all of it, sort of even accepted it too. And even if he didn't, there was no going back by this time. The youngsters were more than halfway through the reformat, their former personalities irretrievably lost. They had no way but to press on and finish the process the best they could. He saw the sedative line going loose that the Seeker did not and alerted the medic on duty who replaced it in just a breem. But by the time he did, they all saw the spark monitor registering extreme stress and the personality upload suffering serious conflicts that sent a multitude of errors for the next joor even after the line in place. The remaining personality – and it was anyone's guess as to how much he still had at this point – woke up and expressed its extreme distress over the process it was undergoing in the only way it could, by denying it while it was able to.

"Should we abort and restart the process?"

"No. They had to be done the same time for the link to form. It is more important than individual personality errors, after all they'll have to stabilize each other through it. He will have to cope with his corrupted parts. Hopefully it won't be a serious problem."

* * *

**Soldier**

Jazz stood in the common room, watching the fliers move around for the first time. They were all different, one bigger than the rest, one slightly smaller and all having different frames, wings and abilities; but after a few kliks of observation he unerringly moved towards one of them. There was no recognition in the unfamiliar blue optics, not a single recognizable bit in his shape, size, colours or wings – but he knew. He was spec ops and he knew how to register some mech above and beyond the physical; and he recognized the slightly hazy, unfocused gaze that absentmindedly followed the silvery pattern that the reflected sunshine painted on the floor.

"What is your designation?"

The blue gaze turned towards him, polite but unfocused interest and the recognition of the superior officer appearing in them. He turned towards Jazz, the gestalt defensively closing on around him in a flurry of wings and thrusters, the big one shielding them from any possible danger. The jet smiled at them slightly as he answered in a dreamy, soft voice, optics already returning to the shiny pattern:

"Fireflight."

* * *

**Note**: batch Seeker – an euphemism that I borrowed from razordragonfly, from his excellent Five Million Years fic. I use it a bit differently though.


	2. Heights

**Title**: Origins 2 - Heights

**Author**: Kit SummerIsle

**Rating**: T

**Continuity**: G1-ish AU, pre-Earth

**Warnings**: mentioning of abuse, mind-wipe, violence (not detailed)

**Summary**: Each bot in the Autobot army has his story of how he became what he is. Some stories are secrets from most, some even from the mechs themselves.

**Note**: I originally intended this fic as a one-shot, but when it was finished and I re-read it a few days later, I started to think. If one of the Aerialbots had a story that is not the canon, then the others must have one too. And I started to write.

* * *

**Heights**

* * *

**Struggle**

He was the slowest of the batch, in fact the whole fleet and it meant not only the derision of the officers but his wingmates' too. What did it matter that he could rain destruction on the Autobots when he was struggling to simply get there in time and they never lined up nicely for him to throw his bombs effectively. He sometimes managed to catch a slow or already injured bot with his bombardment, but it really meant nothing in the ongoing competition where all the Seekers were expected to deactivate dozens, not individuals. So, in effect his ration was always smaller than everyone else's even though his bigger frame would have required more, not less. In time he improved his technique and consequently his kill rate marginally – it was hard work to find out everything on his own, but no mech in the Decepticon army cared to teach a lone bomber of tricks or techniques.

Iceberg shifted uncomfortably on the berth that was hardly big enough for the other fliers and therefore hopelessly small for him. Being comfortable was not something he ever remembered experiencing; only some of the triple-changers were bigger than him but they were all valued soldiers and thus worthy of amenities that were forever denied of him. Bad enough to be a batch sparked flier, but to be the most worthless one was simply Pit worthy. Not that he accepted his fate meekly, because he didn't. He trained harder than any of the other Seekers, he tried to study aerial tactics to find out how he could be useful, he strained above and beyond his design specs in battles – but when one is ordered to be in a Seeker wing by officers who's never before seen a bomber, neither of it counts anything really. And in all Seeker wings he was forced to be in, even the most incompetent youngsters were faster and more maneuverable than him.

"Worthless cargo plane" and "Slow-poke scrapheap" He heard it enough times to be proficient in the taunts and derisions. Hardly anyone knew what his designation meant but even those said it in a tone that meant useless, worthless, cumbersome and coward. He towered over his fellow – hahh… as if any of them accepted him… - Seekers like a mountain of snow and winter would to a bunch of penguins milling in an icefield; but instead of being regarded as a novum, a feared force of nature he was considered as a bumbling idiot of a giant, carved out of innocent, white snow. Why had he to be, on top of everything against him, so light, so white, so innocent-looking even in tone? White, gold and light red weren't exactly Decepticon colours as he learned quickly. Far better to be dark, purple or blue, like the more fortunate jets of his batch.

* * *

**Plan**

He would change his fate. The decision came after one particularly awful orn, during which everything happened to him that made his functioning a Pit one by one and by the end of it he was close to giving up. Sitting on a low wall by the landing field, he was watching the real Seekers, the old ones that everyone secretly envied flying in a way few of them could even come close to – and he most certainly wasn't one. They all scorned the batch Seekers more or less. The grounders to, be them officers or simple grunts. Bad enough to be part of a group that everyone looked down, but to be the one even they derided was intolerable. What could a lone bomber do where he was not wanted, not accepted and couldn't even be useful?

He took to going to the town library in his meager free time. Somewhere among the datapads there must be a solution for his predicament. Or so he hoped. But if it was there he couldn't find it. Next he took to visiting the town's temple for Primus, even as he was laughed for it. Somewhere, among the prayers there must be an answer for him too from the God. Or so he hoped. But if it was there, Primus did not deign to make it clear for him. He even tried high grade, as much as his pitiful credit chips could allow; the harshest, impure, punishing brews that only brought oblivion, humiliation and no answer either.

The solution, when it came was as unexpected and shocking as a kick in the aft. One orn all the fliers were ordered to the big square of the compound, lining up in row after row behind and around their officers and waited silently as a mech was dragged to the middle and chained to the gibbet. His crime was read next by the base commander himself. He used to be a spy, trying to gain secrets from the Autobots, until he got enticed by their viles. He turned coat and sold their secrets instead until he was discovered. He paid for that long and hard while they were watching the energon-splattered scene unmoving.

Iceberg had accidentally known the mech before this. They hardly talked more than a few words over some high-grade and no secrets at that, but the flier knew that he was no traitor, no defector for gains. He truly believed that the Autobots knew it better, had it better and were in the right more than the Decepticons. Had anyone even suspected that they talked about it, he'd've been chained beside him sharing his fate and no proof would have been demanded.

But his outcast state was to his advantage there as nobody suspected that he had a slowly forming idea in his processor. Autobot literature was of course unavailable anywhere where he could freely read it, but the Neutral town nearby came handy, as he could get hold of datapads that would mean his painful deactivation too. His resolve solidified a bit every orn. There was no reason for him to stay and accept abuse and derision for simply existing. There was nothing in the Decepticon credo that was not an empty slogan or a lying statement interspersed with mistrust, hatred, prejudices and opportunism – he saw their falseness and lies every orn.

The first opportunity he could do so safely enough, he would defect. It cannot be anything worse than they had already thrown at him – or so he thought. He wasn't so naïve to think they would accept him immediately. No, he'd be prisoner, not trusted, having to work for their trust and acceptance. But that would make all the difference in the world – here, he had no chance of being anything else than a worthless scrap, while there, he could in time be useful. He hoped.

* * *

**Failure**

"First wing, target is at the following coordinates, copy."

"Target coordinates received commander." – the wing-leader's voice echoed in their radio, notifying them of the coordinates but not requiring – indeed not allowing for answer. They followed him in the set course, in the ordered formation, just like they always did, like they always had to. Iceberg pushed his straining engines up to a notch just to keep up with them. It was always so. Soon, they would have to do some kind of an evasive maneuver and he would not be able to follow fast and agile enough, as he was neither. But this time it would be different, he swore to himself. He was not going to take slag any more. He would find his chance.

The Autobot town's fortified walls came to their sights. They were formidable and many a Seeker felt some fear at the massive cannons that stood ready to spew death to them. The wing's formation wavered a bit as the fliers suddenly had their nerves to contend with. The radio-waves crackled with silence and they all wanted to hear orders – orders that they were taught would make them safe, make them victorious. But the consoling words didn't come. Instead the massive defenses came to life and roared their fearsome power towards them.

"First wing ascend above the barrage. Second wing, evasive and wait for orders."

They rose. That was about the last thing that Iceberg registered clearly. He ascended with the others, or as near to them as he could. Vertically he wasn't that much slower than the others, so he straggled only a tiny bit. Still it was enough for the defenders to find him. After all he was the biggest target. The first shots reached his wings when he thought to be almost high enough to be safe. The damage was enough to loose altitude and fall into the thick of the anti-aircraft fire, where he stood no chance. It hurt like Pit as the missiles tore his wings apart, ruined his chassis and made his engines explode. He looked down at them, pain drawing a haze on his optics as he fell. There went the chance to defect, to have a chance of a normal functioning, indeed any kind of life after this.

It was a long way down until the ground. A long way to curse Primus, that slagger who condemned him to this world, this existence, this Pit.

* * *

**Retry**

"He is totally scrapped."

"But still functioning… I wonder what keeps him alive."

"Determination, mostly…" – the medic's voice was strained. He was so much smaller than the crashed flier that he could easily move around on the torn and broken body as he worked to stabilize his systems.

"We can use some determination. He has to be rebuilt anyway."

"Affirmative. We have no use for a bomber."

"I can't take away so much of his protoform to be the same as the others."

"There is no need. They'll need a bigger one anyway."

The broken plates, fixtures and mostly everything else was removed, until barely more than his spark chamber and the still damaged and leaking protoform remained. It was transported to the moon base, more or less fixed while the scientists came up with the plans for the reformat and the subjects to perform it on. He didn't dream. He was in forced stasis, woken up only to hack his processor and see his base personality. He was strangely cooperative, all the time trying to tell them that he wanted to defect anyway and please let him prove his worth. It was deemed irrelevant and it was not mentioned in any reports. No reason to stir the conscience of the Prime, he was uncomfortable enough with the project as it was.

The reformat went without a hitch for his part. For his new form, they went back to the older tetrajet format which was bigger than the present variation; it was slower but still had better specs than the bomber plane. He wouldn't be the faster of the group anyway, it wasn't what they planned for him; the experimental weapon that they included would make up for the speed and the bigger frame would provide psychological role in the gestalt. Their former lives were deleted from every record, the secret of their origins remaining among a small group of scientists and medic who as the war went on fell one by one. In a few vorns it was forgotten by almost everyone.

* * *

**Remember**

"Status report." – the voice was devoid of emotion or compassion as he looked down the slowly onlining tetrajet. He created a work of art, an actual flight-capable gestalt from the riff-raff of the captured Con fliers and he was definitely proud of his achievement – but he felt nothing towards the jets themselves. They were merely a result of his work, soldiers and not companions. He would never get attached to them like lesser scientist did sometimes. He did his work and research and he wasn't sentimental about it.

"Status: operating within normal parameters." – the answer was automatic, like programmed into him as the flier ran the checks on his frame and programming; and when it was done, he tested the link. It was silent still, as his brothers… he paused for some reason for a nanoklik but the thought continued… his brothers were just booting up too and not yet speaking. They would do that soon enough he knew – and from then on silence would be a rare thing for them. He would never again be alone, although why that was important he wasn't sure.

The big flier proved to be perfect for the role they intended him to play. He was compassionate, conscientious, hardworking and a perfect image of an elder, even though he wasn't a groon older than his gestalt mates. They all loved him and obeyed him instinctly in matters professional and personal as well. He kept the gestalt together and provided them a focal point to make up for their individual insecurities and private peculiarities. He was considered almost too good to be true by the scientists… at least until their first flight and the nervous breakdown when he rose to cruising altitude; the fear and terror that forced him to land, his teammates milling around uncertainly; and what they couldn't make him forget ever after.

Silverbolt of course didn't remember that last fateful order through his radio to rise above the Autobot barrage. He didn't remember the way he slowly dropped behind the faster ones in his wing, the Seekers not even glancing behind to his progress. He didn't remember the Autobots behind the anti-aircraft cannons following him, the straggler, the easy target. He didn't remember the cruel fire shredding his great wings and the long-long way down until the ground harshly embraced his broken chassis. Nor did he remember screaming at the top of his vocal range until the ground. His memories were shredded, his coding changed, the totality of both checked many times. There was no way he could remember.

But his spark did anyway.

* * *

**Note2**: I admit that the designation 'Iceberg' is certainly a strange one for a Transformer, especially for a flier. I was just thinking of a suitable designation when I came across a short article, about an albino killer whale called Iceberg - and I simply knew that I had to use this name. I rationalized it later to myself that if they can have an 'Icestorm' then why not an Iceberg?


	3. Praise

**Title**: Origins 3 - Praise

**Author**: Kit SummerIsle

**Rating**: T

**Continuity**: G1-ish AU, pre-Earth

**Warnings**: mentioning of abuse, mind-wipe, violence (not detailed)

**Summary**: Each bot in the Autobot army has his story of how he became what he is. Some stories are secrets from most, some even from the mechs themselves.

* * *

**Praise**

* * *

**Desperate**

"Too small. Too young. Worthless." – the voice that delivered the verdict was bored, careless and more than a bit disdaining.

"I can fly! I can fight! Take me on please!" – the voice that answered was young, shaking with desperate emotions and trying its best to sound more adult, in order to be taken seriously.

"Go away. The Decepticon army is not a care-center. You are useless. Out."

"But I wanna fight!" – Spitfire didn't particularly want to fight, but he really had no choice. At this point it was either the Decepticon army or starving on the streets; these orns a young orphaned flier didn't get many choices in Kaon. He couldn't even sell his body with his interface systems not showing any sign of coming online either; that too was partly because he was starving, he knew. Many of his systems failed to online so far, more important ones too than his spike. The energon he could gather from abandoned machinery was almost worse than slag mixed with acid, but that was all he could get. No stealing for a flier who couldn't hide and be inconspicuous. He was, as many told him: useless.

"Get lost, brat before I throw you out." – the Decepticon officer was not interested in starving street rats, as the recruiting was open for mechs worth their upkeep in energon and useful in the war. It would be his fault and punished accordingly, if he showed compassion and took the mechling on and he proved to be worthless. For a nanoklik he contemplated the brat being able to train to as spy, but dismissed the idea immediately as his glance fell onto the small wings on his back. Flier. Autobots were soft-sparked but definitely not idiots.

"Suck slag then!" – Spitfire murmured quietly as slinked out of the building, hungrily watching the well-fed mechs who got enlisted that joor, milling around in a restricted area of the huge chamber. If only he could leave the town… but no use to whine about something he couldn't change. He was caught in a vicious circle of circumstances; he couldn't get enough energon to grow and strengthen, therefore he couldn't fly and because of that he couldn't leave to have opportunities to acquire more energon… Kaon was hard enough life for mechs but even more so for youngsters alone and without any caretaker or a group. He knew several of those gangs that pillaged the abandoned factories and neighborhoods, some even dared to steal and rob mechs that they could overpower collectively.

But he was alone as far as he could remember – which admittedly wasn't that long. His memory seemed to be blank when he tried to remember how he got to the city and how he functioned in it before. It was like he didn't exist a vorn ago. Since then, he tried to scrape enough energon to remain functional in a city totally uncaring for his efforts and uninterested in his struggle for survival. Where did he get the idea that being in another city would be better for him? While he still had enough energy to think of such things he decided that in Vos he would be if not cared for then at least never going hungry, that his kind would not let him deactivate.

The little flier, cut off from any kind of information sources didn't know that the city he yearned for didn't exist any more – only the silent ruins smoked in the place of the high and proud towers. He had very little knowledge about the war itself, only the hazy notion that Decepticons were supposed to fight for the lower castes and the poorer mechs. He heard that when someone big held a rousing public speech in a big square. And was he not a low caste and poor, unable to even sustain himself? But apparently it didn't matter. Spitfire hid beneath some rusting plates to be safe from both the gangs and the inevitable acid rain and tried to forget his aching tanks that complained loudly of being empty of anything useful but poisoned by the slag that was the energon he sometimes found in old machinery.

The next orn he had to run. One of the gangs discovered him hiding and he was fortunate to get away with just a slight dent and a scratch to his left wing – but then they started to hunt and chase him all across the ruined quarters of the city. He had no delusions as to what they wanted – his energon that was still in his lines and his parts to sell. The place was full of abandoned, half-collapsed buildings that used to be busy factories and storehouses but were left to slowly crumble into slag vorns ago, at the first of the energon-famines, when many businesses gone bankrupt, to make the big ones at the top that much richer. These orns it gave home to desperately craving empties, some weaker gangs that got hounded out from the still livable inner parts of the town and other, slowly dying mechs of no particular description.

It takes a long time for a mech to finally deactivate from starvation, a painfully long suffering and pain as the systems go to standby mode one by one, then offline and atrophy, until not enough remains to sustain the dying spark. The last part of the slow process that could take groons was when even the processors and memory chips started to fail, pushing the starving mechs into a dazed stupor that few woke up from. The whole thing is even slower and more painful if the mech could get a little energon, usually a dirty, impure one, barely enough to sustain the core systems, but not the rest.

Spitfire was somewhere halfway to become a real Empty; still fighting claw and denta to scrape some energon to sustain him, but unable to get enough to grow and become a mech, able to find a job or at least a regular source of sustenance. He knew that he was close to the time and if not for the lack of energon and upgrade he'd be adult already. But instead he remained in this half-living, half-dying stage – and every time he got chased by a gang, his meager reserves got used up frightfully fast, denying him the chance to grow up yet again. Still, he'd rather not get torn apart for the energon in his lines thank you very much.

He knew how the hunt was going and he had his routes that would lead him to safer places – if not for the fact that apparently he got caught between two separate gangs and forced to bolt without a plan and knowing where he'd end up. Running full out on the exposed street he jumped high to climb the wall at the end of it, desperation giving him an incentive to be able to squirm up to the top, ignoring the alarm's wailing that started up around him. It was probably just a leftover from the building's heydays, he thought as he disappeared on the other side. He should have been suspicious that none of the gang-members followed him, but at that point he was just glad for it.

* * *

**Hoping**

Without sparing any attention to his surroundings, Spitfire scrambled into the first doorway he saw open and didn't stop there to marvel at the more or less standing building where there shouldn't have been any such. Finding a small room that looked long undisturbed by the amount of debris and dust in it he stayed there unmoving behind a scrap heap, listening for any footsteps or engine noises to signal approaching danger. Only when none came for joors did he dare to move again and start to discover the place where his wild run landed him.

Aside from the few rooms at the back, where he hid, the building was suspiciously intact and looked like to be in use occasionally. By whom, he couldn't tell, at least not until he saw a mech, a grounder coming in and he recognized the insignia on his chest-plates before he leaned over some kind of a machinery. He managed to get into a Decepticon place somehow – from the look of it newly established here. He twitched nervously and immediately regretted it as the mech, fast as a viper straightened up and pointed a nasty looking blaster towards him.

"Whoever is there come out or I'll shoot!" – the voice was rough and tense but not cruel. Spitfire froze, but he saw no way out so he slowly moved out from behind the parts heap to face him – and his blaster. He felt closer to deactivation than ever before.

"Please don't shoot! I didn't know where I was running!"

"You are a youngling…?" – the mech sounded almost shocked. But surely he knew how bad things were outside the armies…?

"Y-yes…"

"Don't you have someplace to stay…?"

"N-no…"

"Hey, don't be afraid, I won't do anything to you."

Spitfire didn't trust him at all, despite of his words. He's seen far too much to trust any mech, even the most innocent-looking one; and the Decepticon was quite far from what could be called harmless. Decepticons were said to be ruthless and cruel to anyone not in their army, and some said that they behaved the same even within that. But he couldn't run any more, the low energy warnings turned from yellow to red, shutting down even more of his systems.

"What's your designation?"

"S-spitfire…" – he could hardly speak by now.

"What's wrong with you?" – the mech stared at him uncomprehending and Spitfire knew that the mech probably never ever had to miss even one refueling, much less be familiar with the signs of last stage starvation.

"Gonna shut down…" – he groaned with his last ergs. The mech might or might not give him energon, but nobody else would. – "hungry…"

"Ohh… I see. Can't have a youngling be deactivated on me…" – the mech murmured, somewhat ashamed not to recognize the youngster's condition. He pulled out a cube from his subspace, an actual, real, full cube of energon, Spitfire marveled with hazy optics, and brought it to his lip-plates, slowly pouring it into his mouth. It was beyond marvelous how it felt as the energon, real, clean energon slid down his scratched intakes, warmed his empty, aching tanks and washed through his clogged fuel pump. In itself the cube was probably more than he had in the last half-vorn and he felt his systems stutter and restart in the presence of so much fuel. In that klik, Spitfire knew that trust or no trust he'd do anything this mech ever asked him to do. Just for this cube. Calling it lifesaving didn't even come close to what it meant to him.

"Need more?"

He nodded weakly, hardly able to believe his luck. Amazingly, the mech gave him another cube, silently shaking his helm at his thirst, but not in any disapproving way; he looked concerned. Why, Spitfire couldn't fathom; as far as he remembered, he never met a mech actually caring for a complete stranger, and a completely worthless one, like himself. Every mech he knew had so far told him bluntly, often cruelly that he was simply not worth to be given energon. To meet one at what seemed to be his last orns of his existence who was different – it was quite a miracle in the young flier's optics.

"Thank you." – he croaked, his vocalizer just as shocked by the sudden influx of energy as the rest of him.

"You can stay here." – he said – "Practically no mech comes here beside me. I'm Mismatch by the way."

"Thank you…" – he couldn't say anything else, but stupidly repeating himself. He was not used to kindness, care or such things, therefore he wasn't sure how he should react. But the mech didn't seem to mind it as he went about his task, leaving the youngling to hide back to the place he found and felt safe. Now, that he could think clearly, he started to worry what he should do. Leaving the Decepticon camp was dangerous, probably far more dangerous than the way in was and even then he'd be no better off than before. Here at least Mismatch allowed him to stay safe and he hoped that in time he could sink out of the building to steal some energon from somewhere.

But he didn't have to; the next cycle Mismatch brought him a cube again, and he did so more or less regularly every other orn from then on. They talked a bit too, Mismatch telling him that he was a minor mechanic, a tinkerer rather and how he got forcefully 'recruited' along with his little workshop when someone in the Decepticon army realized that they did need some more qualified mechs as well, beside the miners and gladiators. He had no problems with what they were fighting for, albeit he wasn't a fighter himself, only with the means they often used. Like his own case, he said sadly, and Spitfire was secretly ashamed to be glad that he was there for him.

At first he was afraid what the mech would want from him, in exchange for the energon and the place to stay. Even though those in the army never lacked for energon, it was still rationed and Mismatch always gave him as much as he needed. He was, as many said worthless and the only pay he could imagine a mech wanting from him was his frame. Spitfire knew that if the mech asked him that, he would comply. He would be deactivated by this time if not for the brown mech and it meant a huge debt; he wouldn't do it for love or even lust, but to repay that debt. But as time went and Mismatch never made any moves towards his panel, he started to believe that the mech really helped him altruistically.

"You will have to be upgraded soon, I can see."

"Yes… but I cannot." – it was another hurdle, an insurmountable one as he had no credits, no means of getting hold of an adult frame of whatever description, much less a flier one.

"I've thought of it… I can't buy you a frame; I don't have that many credits, never mind that Seeker frames are impossible to come by these orns. But there is a way…" – his hesitant manner told Spitfire that he wouldn't like the way. But how not, when he had none at all?

"What is it?"

"This facility caters for young fliers brought here and with accelerated growth, upgraded to adulthood. I think I can sneak you in among those batch Seekers they bring and you'd be upgraded with them. But the downside of it is that once you are registered as a Decepticon Seeker, you can't just disappear."

Spitfire almost laughed it was so ironic – "I was trying to get enlisted before, only to be thrown out as too small and useless."

"So you wouldn't mind it?"

"Of course not. I get to be upgraded and regular fuel and even a chance to actually do something instead of hiding from gangs among garbage and starve into deactivation? I'd take it any orn."

"That's it then. They'll have a batch coming in within two orns. Be ready. And never tell anyone about your life before."

The next night cycle Mismatch came in with a shell of a big machine, ostensibly for fixing it. When he took it back to the main building, where the holding rooms were, it was considerably heavier – but no mech noticed that. Once in, it was easy to find a mechling whose spark guttered out from the forced upgrades and put the stasis locked Spitfire into his place; the other, grayed out frame he took with him to depose of. The next orn he kept his audials open to hear whether there were any disturbances in the laboratories, but he heard none; and the orn after that he saw an unfamiliar black and green Seeker watch him long and meaningfully from the formation in which they stood in the compound's central square; the thanks that he couldn't tell shining in those red optics. He never saw Spitfire after that, as the upgraded Seekers were stationed in different bases afterwards, while his task kept him there; and it would have been most unwise to enquire about a Seeker he shouldn't have known at all to begin with.

* * *

**Proud**

It wasn't as hard to hide among the batch Seekers as he'd previously thought. They were docile, uneducated like himself, obedient to their officers and neither of them dared to question anything. Truth to be told it was mostly boring; Spitfire discovered that with enough energon to supply his processor and frame, he wanted more than just mindless drills and in their free time getting overcharged on various substances that they had available instead of real and much coveted high grade. Only, he couldn't get to do anything else. Batch Seekers were not expected, in fact frowned upon to try and do anything outside their approved circle of activities.

The battles, once they were pronounced ready and ordered to the frontlines weren't bad though; for the first time in his life, Spitfire was better than those around him and nobody told him how useless he was, not worthy for the energon he consumed. In fact he heard a number of officers grudgingly complimenting him on actions well done. He luxuriated in that feeling, recompensed at last for vorns of lacking, hiding and begging on the streets. He was easily the best of the group and for some time it worried him – but nobody got suspicious of a batch Seeker to be actually good in the air. Until one orn their wing had some visitors…

"I heard that you have a moderately good flier, Wing Commander. I came to see if he is as good as you purport him to be."

"Of course Air Commander, at once! We are honored to have you…"

'Spare me the platitudes. I didn't come to listen to you, I have better things to do with my time." – Starscream has never been much for mincing words or caring anyone's feelings and being sent to evaluate a promising flier was quite frankly a punishment for him. Quite literally – Megatron wanted to get rid of him for a while and sent him to these demeaning tasks to anger him.

"At once, Lord Starscream!" – The wing commander ordered Spitfire to report at the base command at once, not wanting to get to the worse side of the infamous Air Commander. It was of course a true honour to have him visiting there and to have a Seeker on his wing that caught even the Elite Seekers' optics; he was of course jealous not to be the one who managed it.

Spitfire was nervous to be ordered to the commander in his free time; such things never meant any good. But he didn't do anything illegal or out of turn, so he had no idea why he was singled out. Once arriving to the command center, he was shocked to see a famous, tricoloured frame that all Seekers recognized from any angle. The fabled Air Commander who looked… small. Spitfire was surprised by that; the stories that circulated about Starscream never mentioned it, in fact they mostly alluded him to be better, faster, smarter than any other flier – certainly hinting nothing about being almost femme-like smallness. But he didn't betray any of those thoughts - or so he hoped - when the Seeker turned towards him and with a sneer on his faceplates that looked permanently carved in and snarled at him.

"Are you the one called Spitfire?"

"Yes Air Commander."

"I heard you are the best flier hereabouts."

"I… uhh… I try my best, Air Commander."

"Try for real. I'm not interested in bragging." – he actually made it sound like it was Spitfire boasting his abilities before raising the infamous null-rays at him and shot a warning salvo at his pedes, singeing his thrusters. The younger Seeker jumped slightly at the unexpected attack before he heard the Seeker's screech – "What are you waiting for, you dolt? Fly or I'll have your wings taken and reformat you a cleaning drone!"

Oh, so it was a test… Spitfire stopped thinking and transforming, he shot in the air, the Air Commander hot on his thrusters. Slag. He had a nice top speed, he was fortunate in the purely random frame he got, as it was agile and maneuverable – but of course he could never match the elder Seeker's abilities that no other flier could. Still he did his best, squeezed out every ounce of speed and every trick that he learned so far and didn't care a whit where the mad chase took them in a scant few breems. Starscream wasn't giving him an easy time that was for sure; Spitfire's sensors registered the discharge of the null-rays a couple of times, just like a slightly scorched and tingling wingtip. They tore and weaved around the still standing structures at top speeds, doing almost impossible maneuvers that more than once threatened them to crash, to collide or just fall short of their abilities and lose it…

But it wasn't a null-ray that ended the flight, nor was it Starscream grounding him in the manner of the ages old traditions of the Trine ranking fights. He saw the tricoloured frame flashing by his left wing, doing a truly impossible tight turn to avoid something he couldn't see – and a sudden weight settled painfully on his back instead, strong servos grabbing his wings and tearing into the plating. He couldn't keep the altitude with such an extra weight settling on him so suddenly and turned downwards, nosecone pointing alarmingly towards the ground. Spitfire struggled to regain balance and thrust while the unknown mech proceeded to ravage his back and foul up his wiring and it didn't help him one single whit.

Nor did a shot of the null-ray's beam help that he felt flashing just above him, but missing his attacker. He continued to lose altitude and no matter the maneuvers and acrobatics he tried, he couldn't shake the menace off his back. One klik, as he went down he saw the tricoloured frame glinting in the setting sun's rays, drawing away, leaving him to the mercy of his attacker… his radio crackled, Starscream's scratchy voice talking to him before he crashed into the fast approaching ground, the weight leaving his backside at the very last klik:

_"You did fly well."_

* * *

**Angry**

Snatches of visions, flashes of memories, licks of flame and pain… he groaned, or rather wanted to, but couldn't find the strength – and a vocalizer - for it. Where, who, why and how swirled brokenly in his damaged processor but for the love of Primus he couldn't make sense of them. He felt the maelstrom closer and closer as the jumbled memory bits and scrapped coding vied for a klik, a breem more to exist. He cling to life with all he had, but that wasn't a lot any more. A head-on crash from that height does that for the processor and no matter how the spark wanted to survive, there wasn't much to continue to support it. His fading, broken consciousness never even registered the mechs who rushed to his side.

"Hold still! We're gonna lose him."

"No, just hook his spark chamber to this and we gain a little time."

"It is fluctuating. Do we need him that much?"

"He flew with Starscream, even though he is not in that glitch-head's Trine. Must be good. I want him on the team."

"Fine. Going to give him a good frame then?"

"Of course."

-o-o-o-

From the second they were awakened and flew for the first time together, he was inexplicably irked about the failings of his brothers. It hardly got any easier in time to see Silverbolt freeze in terror when he got too high, to watch Fireflight crash into anything the least shiny, to feel Slingshot struggle with his shortcomings and desperately try to make up for them; or to know that Skydive preferred flying in theory rather than in the air. He was the best of them, that much he knew but was it truly an accomplishment in a wing like this? He wanted, no, he needed real Seekers to test himself against them, to be better than them and to be praised for flying well. He wasn't sure what he was yearning for and why he craved so much for every single hard-won praise, but he did.

In every consequent battle, Air Raid unconsciously sought to finish that last fatal, but glorious flight with Starscream, to regain that praise he'd been given but never remembered.

* * *

**Note**: Spitfire is young, but not underage; his systems are not developed because he is starving and he is not upgraded. Once he got enough fuel he could be upgraded as he was past the time for that.


	4. Roles

**Title**: Origins 4 - Roles

**Author**: Kit SummerIsle

**Rating**: T

**Continuity**: G1-ish AU, pre-Earth

**Warnings**: mentioning of abuse, slash (not detailed)

**Summary**: Each bot in the Autobot army has his story of how he became what he is. Some stories are secrets from most, some even from the mechs themselves.

* * *

**Roles**

* * *

** Mediocre**

Sunspear was thoroughly average. He was in the middle of the batch to be sparked, to be upgraded and he remained there, in that middling position after their abilities and knowledge was tested and evaluated. He was assigned in the middle of the wing with better and worse fliers around him in equal numbers. He never did anything unexpected, be it a prank, an insubordination or an outstanding effort and consequently he was never punished and never praised either, unless together with others for a collective effort. He was there to fill the ranks, to strengthen the wing and to provide numbers in an attack.

His nature was unassuming too. He never complained about the unexpected night-cycle trainings, the endless formation practices, the disciplinary events when the whole wing had to stand unmoving in the central square for joors while one mech was being punished in front of them to watch. He never wanted more than his ration in energon, never made shady deals with unscrupulous grounders who promised illegal high-grade to the eager jets but swindled them until they had neither credits nor their desired drug. Nor did he crave for more than he was given or were frustrated by his meager standing in the wing. He accepted it as the way things were and would probably be forever.

He was so thoroughly average that it was not a small miracle that the base Vice-Commander, a big gunformer by the designation of Gunlock had taken notice of him in one orn as they stood at attention before the commanding officers. The Seekers were just ordered to leave the place and they made a half-turn in rows and marched off the square, back to their barracks. When it was his row's time, Sunspear turned and went with them in his place without anything strange happening. It was just the setting sun that cast its mellow rays on them and lit up his saving grace, the golden yellow stripe on his wings, the reason for his designation, even more outstanding with the mass of dull, matte black paint-jobs as background.

Seekers are generally considered beautiful by most grounders and Gunlock was no exception from that rule. Only… these batch Seekers were so dull, so scorned, so looking the same en masse, that he never before put them into the same category as the real fighting jets, like the ones in the Elite Trine. He saw those Seekers only a few times, mostly in battles from afar, but afterwards he often self-stimulated himself to fantasies of a certain tricoloured Seeker in unmistakable positions. But this was the first time he contemplated a batch Seeker's form that indubitably was almost the same as his daydream's and acknowledged that despite of the dirty black paint, that golden stripe did look enticing on the quivering wings - wings that often starred in his more lewd dreams.

He checked the flier's designation on the roster and reviewed Sunspear's records, contemplating what he could do and whether he really wanted to get into it. By the end of his shift, he came to a decision and ordered the obviously surprised and apprehensive Seeker to his office. When he arrived and stood stiffly at attention in the room he never been before, Gunlock slowly circled around the still frame, noticed the nervous shaking of the wings that again showed off the golden stripe nicely, even though it obviously wasn't his intention. A lowly grunt should indeed be afraid of punishment when ordered to his commander's office without preambles.

"Do you know why you are here, Seeker?"

Sunspear racked his memory banks, desperately trying to find the infraction he might have committed that would lead him to be here – but he found nothing and finally he had to admit it to the Vice-Commander.

"I-I'm sorry Commander, but I-I don't know! B-but I did nothing, I swear!"

Gunlock almost laughed at the desperate trying of the young flier to extricate himself from the situation he had no hand in creating. He wasn't even trying to be intimidating, but the Seeker was already as malleable as soft wax.

"Don't worry, you are not in trouble. I have an offer for you."

"A-an offer, Sir?" – those wide, red optics looked good too, especially when they were properly submissive, peering upwards to his larger frame.

"Yes. I need a new aide. You look capable and have… hmm, other qualities for the task."

Sunspear tried to make sense of that latter half of the sentence. He had qualities? That was news for the young flier who so far only excelled at being totally nondescript. Then the first half of the utterance caught in his processor and he was afraid and elated at the same time, spiced up with a bit of worry as well. To be an aide to the SIC was so far above his present rank – or rather the lack of any – that he could hardly believe it possible. But the Commander looked at him almost benignly and he heard him well… so it must be true.

"I-I'm honored Commander that you considered me!" – belatedly he remembered that such an offer must come with a price; nothing in the Decepticon army came for free, especially not advantageous promotions. Being an aide would mean increased rations, less training, plenty of opportunities and better quarters – as well as better standings in the social order too for which a batch Seeker usually had next to no chance. He didn't have to wait long for the demands part either, as Gunlock favored him with a lustful smile and answered.

"I do have some expectations though if I were to choose you, Sunspear. I need a personal companion as well as a professional aide." – he was serious now and wanted the flier to understand that it really was his choice. Gunlock was neither meaner nor more forgiving than an average Decepticon officer, but he was definitely not into rape. His partners were all indulging him of their own free will and any dominance or submission roleplays were also voluntarily given. – "You are free to refuse this part and no consequences will fall to you other than being ineligible for the job."

Sunspear could think of only one thing the Vice-Commander would ask of him thus in return for the position and mean the asking with no consequences. It wasn't that any of them had anything else to give really; no credits, no influence, no means to do covert jobs for anyone, they had one thing grounders wanted: wings in their berths. Wings meant sensuality, lusciousness and a general proficiency in interfacing matters, at least according to grounder beliefs and fantasies. Sunspear himself has never tried that part of his existence, albeit he's heard some of his wingmates had been experimenting in that field and found it highly enjoyable. The only thing they all lacked was a suitable private space, as understandably none of them was willing to do that in the common barracks, in front of dozens of watching optics.

He wasn't as naïve to think that the Vice Commander wanted him for any kind of a softer emotion or feeling; not even mentioning of love to any degree. He never really expected that he would feel that towards anyone or have the feeling directed to him either – those emotions were actually frowned upon in the Decepticon army. They were considering a… common agreement, a deal with mutual benefits. He'd get the increased rank with all the attendant amenities, while the Commander would have a dedicated aide who wouldn't betray him and a compliant concubine to sate his lust. Sunspear didn't have any misguided beliefs that even in a consensual relationship, he wouldn't be required to be submissive, compliant, as befitting to his station in life. But then… he could live with that too.

The Vice-Commander moved closer to the unmoving, apparently thinking Seeker, deliberately moving into his personal space, with one servo ghosting one wing that slightly fluttered at the proximity. He was willing to give the Seeker all the time and freedom he needed to decide, but he'd do his best to bend that decision to his favour. He couldn't help being bigger than the flier, but standing to his side he would not appear threatening but still visible. He was happy when, in a short while flier's wings lowered in position and fluttered strongly as he lifted his optics to Gunlock's face; the purple mech couldn't read wing language, but this one had an clearly visible meaning, one soon affirmed by Sunspear's hesitant voice.

"I would be willing to serve you in all capacity, Commander…"

"Excellent! I'll notify your wing commander of the change and by next orn you'll be able to move in the quarters next to mine. Report to me here at first shift."

"U-understand. Thank you Sir!" – so he had one night cycle to acquire at least rudimentary knowledge of what was likely to be required of him… in a berth. The office, he wasn't worried about; he would learn that part soon.

* * *

**Favourite**

"You are a damn lucky glitch." – it was the most often repeated sentence in the Seekers' barrack that orn, closely followed by a - "Why you anyway?" – but generally, the Seekers, while envious were glad to hear that one of them got promoted to an officer's aide and unofficially to his berth too. The number of advice he got was almost overwhelming, from the simplest 'follow his lead' till the lewdest suggestions that made many of the blush, but Sunspear took it all in stead. He also borrowed and bought with promises of repaying later some nicer wax and polish and carefully applied them to his frame, touching up the dull, scratched paint as much as he could. Never in his entire function he cared this much about his appearance than this time; that he'd get no second chance was clear to him like the night sky.

The next day cycle's first shift found him nervously waiting at the Vice-Commander's office-door; having no clearance yet he couldn't get in yet. But Gunlock was most helpful with him, showing him around, getting him clearance, explaining him the tasks that he must perform; mainly bureaucratic work, the menial parts of the SIC's workload, beside caring for his energon, washing and waxing, schedule and anything Gunlock wanted to get done and dared to delegate. Sunspear was privately glad that his mediocre abilities were quite enough to do all of these tasks; he so didn't want to disappoint Gunlock on his first orn – or ever.

But the end of the shift came all too soon and Sunspear was getting more nervous than he was about the office job; all orn long Gunlock was absentmindedly stroking his wings, touching minutely from time to time and generally staying in the flier's personal space. He was testing the waters, so to speak, getting a feel for the younger mech's field and reactions to his closeness, his resolve to stand by his word. He didn't have to be disappointed either; Sunspear was certainly nervous, so much so that Gunlock suspected him to still have his seals – and he looked forward to dealing with that very much – but he was determined and as his nervousness lessened he was giving proper, honest reactions. Especially the wings, as the gunformer had hoped.

Following the Vice-Commander to his quarters, Sunspear tried to focus on what he should do first without asked; but when they got there his hesitant plans flew out of his mind at once. Fortunately Gunlock knew it better than expect anything adventurous from him; even the stuttered statement about never having done it before, he just waved away unconcerned, even promising it to be as painless as it could be. He was dominant all right, but never demanding and surprisingly patient with the younger mech; he planned to keep the little Seeker for a long time and wanted to lay down some solid, trusting foundation between them. The seals were eventually broken, the gunformer had more than his fill of writhing Seeker wings, mouth and valve; and although Sunspear did feel himself sore in various places for some orns to come, he got satisfaction – and a few overloads as well – out of the experience.

All in all, he concluded a few orns later, it wasn't bad as payments went; Sunspear knew that he was fortunate with Gunlock being somewhat compassionate and reciprocating and he couldn't complain interfacing being either a chore or painful, humiliating. He mostly enjoyed it, as he was told was natural to Seekers, and when it was less than stellar for him, it still has never gone as far as to be called awful. Since it was in his nature and early training reinforced him to be obedient and uncomplaining, the submissive role was natural to him; and Gunlock never pushed him so far as to find it uncomfortable or humiliating.

On the other servo, Sunspear truly enjoyed his tasks in the office and the opportunities that it gave to him. He was a natural in the boring, repetitive, menial office-work that Gunlock hated and therefore he did them meticulously – the datapads and reports were in a better order than ever since he took care of them. He was also highly interested in the occasional strategic or tactical plans that the SIC had to prepare or evaluate and Gunlock saw no reason not to involve him in that either. In the office he could also get hold of numerous datapads with various topics that he enjoyed poring over; in a little while he discovered that reading gave him a deep enjoyment that was almost as good as interfacing. He never expressed that thought aloud of course.

In time, he drifted away from the other Seekers, as he rarely got back to the barracks and they never came to the officers' part of the base. He never had friends among them, only some wingmates he sometimes talked with, but even those were not close by any stretch of the word. Since the officers hasn't let him in on their circles, Sunspear was usually alone, especially when Gunlock was ordered away or had tasks that were above his clearance. Those times, he read. He came to love reading and learning and hardly ever missed the actual training or real flying; in time, even his superior noted how atypical Seeker he became, not wanting to get out to fly all the time, like the rest of them. But he felt comfortable this way.

In a course of nearly a vorn, Sunspear grew accustomed to his roles, even indispensable in the office, and when he noticed Gunlock's interest fading somewhat, he managed to spice it up with some carefully chosen kinks. The gunformer was more than a bit surprised by his initiative – even after so much time that was his weakest point – but eager to try the more extreme methods with Sunspear. They were of course far less to his liking, but he was careful to keep them in the acceptable range. He didn't want to lose his position in the office, even when it required some less than comfortable acts in the berth. Or in the quarters anyway. But he did wonder how long he could keep up the Commander's interest, even with daring to do more and more.

* * *

**Prisoner**

Sunspear knew that something was going on and he anticipated it involving him too soon. The base was under an inspection and evaluation, all manners of irregularities and half-illegal activities were discovered; and as consequence, the punishments were following each other in a long procession, while the brig was full of mechs from every echelon of the base personnel. He was told by Gunlock to keep to his quarters as much as he could and not to call any attention to himself; and since he was actually good at being nondescript, he managed to avoid attention all the way. But still, when the inspection was over, he felt that something has changed. The Vice-Commander was more distant, required his presence and work less and less; until at the end of one orn he was ordered to his superior's quarters and Sunspear knew that whatever it was he'd know soon enough.

"Sunspear, it was strongly suggested to me to order you back to the ranks. According to High Command I should not keep a Seeker from the battlefield." – Gunlock actually looked a bit contrite. He new that Sunspear, thanks to his former sponsorship had no training whatsoever in battles, hardly ever fought and as such he'd have a particularly hard time in the ranks and actual battles again.

"I-I understand Sir…" – Sunspear knew the same things, coupled with the derision a seemingly demoted soldier would get from everyone. But he could do very little against it and at this time, neither could Gunlock. – "Sir… maybe… could you approve my transfer to another unit if I applied…?"

"I can do that. If you want to." – yes, a fresh start might be better than go back to his former wingmates in shame.

"Thank you Sir… for everything."

Gunlock nodded. – "I shall miss you… in the office I mean! Your work was exemplary and I shall note that in your file." – he could safely praise the Seeker for the work he did. It wasn't an emotion, he wouldn't have to be ashamed of it. The rest… well, he got used to the Seeker being around. It was impossible that he felt anything more towards him. That's it, he convinced himself. Only habit and nothing else. Still, he could give the Seeker what he wanted…

Now, it wasn't that often that the Vice-Commander brought up an occasional Autobot prisoner for them to play with – after all, interrogation was not his duty and if they damaged it too much there would be repercussions later - but Sunspear liked it nonetheless. It wasn't often that he got to be dominant, in fact lately it was almost never; and he much preferred bondage on someone else instead of him. It was hard on his wings. This time, he suspected that it happened as a last present for him, to sweeten the bitter energon of being demoted.

Gunlock really should have chosen a different prisoner though; the Autobot saboteur, Jazz was a dangerous one, even after being put through the wringer in interrogation and had two bigger Decepticons play bondage games on him for half the night cycle. At the end as usual, Gunlock left Sunspear to clean up the mess they made and that was the biggest mistake of all; while Jazz had no hope of overpowering the significantly bigger and stronger gunformer, he had more than a slight chance of doing it with the smaller, lone flier who obviously was no fighter and no specialist in handling prisoners either.

Shortly after turning his attention from the apparently bound prisoner, Sunspear froze in mid-step as he felt a small vibro-blade piercing his neck, dangerously close to the main nerve-relays that, if damaged would leave him totally crippled. The smaller saboteur was clinging to his back, holding onto a wing with a strong grip that was as much a threat as a desperate grasp to hold himself up. He was leaking energon and other fluids on his frame too, Sunspear felt and for a split nanoklik his conscience awakened in him towards the injured mech. But it went away quickly as Jazz ordered him in a shaking voice, rough with pain, to take him to a place in the compound that he's never seen before but which contained a well-hidden, small door that led into an underground tunnel.

He almost refused to go into it, but the dagger was strong and unyielding on his neck, even as the mech's frame shook with pain and exertion. Fortunately it was a short way and on the surface again Sunspear found himself outside the base under the night sky of Cybertron. He fully expected then to be deactivated, since he now knew the way in and out that the Autobot spies used; but Jazz had other plans with him, as he would have been unable to go far under his own power. Ordering the surprisingly obedient Seeker to transform, he quickly moved onto his back again, still holding the blade to a vulnerable point and ordered him to fly them to Iacon. If he was correct, the flier should know nearly everything that went through the Vice-Commander's office – a valuable catch, even besides being his way out.

Sunspear had resigned then to be an Autobot prisoner probably for the rest of his life unless they deactivated him; that noone would exchange him or he wouldn't be able to escape on his own, he was almost completely sure. Nor did he expect any mercy from the Autobot currently on his back; they weren't exactly kind to him and in his place Sunspear knew that even he would be murderously angry and wanting revenge. But he wasn't the kind to rebel against his fate and so he took the new developments with the same resignation and fatalism that characterized him lately. It was so useless to try and change fate.

Interrogation was everything he imagined it to be, even though the mech, who captured him like the amateur that he was, didn't seem to go for revenge, only information. Sunspear told him everything, answered every question truthfully. He wasn't a hero, he was just a secretary, a clerk, a noncombatant, as much as a Seeker could ever be such. He didn't even want to see what this dangerous mech could do if he didn't comply. Wrung out of secrets, hacked half out of his processor, he soon stopped thinking about the future. He hardly cared when he was transported to another facility, where mechs looked at him like he was so much spare parts.

* * *

**Wishes**

"He doesn't need a lot of rebuilding frame-wise."

"Have to be careful with the mental reformat then. Every part he keeps makes the possibility of retaining memories higher."

"Right. I'll set the program to flush his secondary nerve-relays' coding as well."

"That's a good idea."

"You know, I'm disgusted by his memories… how typical for the Cons to demand interfacing for promotion."

"I know what you mean… awful."

"I'll never understand them."

As they worked on him, while the powerful AI started to delete his former self, Sunspear dreamt on - while he could. He dreamt of a world with no hard decisions, no bad or worse choices, no demands on him that he couldn't fulfill. He never wanted to be anything else but a simple flier, an average soldier or even a civilian who never gets noticed and let to be a simple part of the whole. He could do that, he could fulfill that role. Just to be a cog in the greater order of things. Not a fulcrum, never a hero or a tragic victim. Let him have his datapads and he'd happily do the rest of his tasks uncomplaining. In peacetime he would have made an excellent librarian, clerk or archivist – too bad he got sparked in a war, where those weren't in any demand.

Surprisingly enough, Skydive got his wish almost perfectly.

* * *

**Note**: once again, I want to stress that although I call them young, the other Seekers and Sunspear too are adults and that his compliance and relationship to Gunlock is completely consensual.


	5. Spark

**Title**: Origins 5 - Spark

**Author**: Kit SummerIsle

**Rating**: T

**Continuity**: G1-ish AU, pre-Earth

**Warnings**: mentioning of bullying, mind-wipe

**Summary**: Each bot in the Autobot army has his story of how he became what he is. Some stories are secrets from most, some even from the mechs themselves.

* * *

**Spark**

* * *

**Sparkling**

Starflight whimpered as the pain flared through his spark again and left a debilitating dizziness in its wake. The spark monitor beside the berth pulsed in a mock sympathy, registering the fluctuations but unable to do anything with them. Nor could the medic, who stood beside the med berth and hesitantly put a kind servo on his small head; but his expression showed that he was powerless to deal with the weak and damaged spark. He would suggest another treatment of course, because the sparkling's Sire was insistent and rich enough to demand the best medical service to his ailing son. But he knew that even if it marginally strengthened the spark, even if they could increase its spin by a few per cent, it would be gone at the next frame upgrade.

The smallish sparkling laid on the hospital berth, shivering even under the thermal blanket, his small wings shaking from the effort of simply existing. Their soft metal was warped from laying on them all the time, as he couldn't even lay on his front like fliers wont to do because the medics needed constant access to his spark chamber. His Carrier sat by the medical berth, holding a small servo that wasn't hooked up on infusions, stroking it worriedly, his own smallish wings folded back almost perpendicular to his back in agitation from the most recent spark flares that threatened his son's health and future.

He lasted two full orns in the nursery this time without having to be taken to the hospital. Starflight hardly even recognized the other mechlings that he was in one group with; he saw them so rarely and for so little time. They mostly played with each other, hardly even glancing at the little sparkling that they saw so rarely. Starflight couldn't even play the most interesting games with them – the others were all walking now, some even testing how their thrusters worked, while he still crawled around. He tried to stand, balanced fearfully on his small thrusters, weak arms waving around – but at the end he either plopped down to his backside, or got strangled by another of the seizures and had to be rushed back to the medic yet again. Starflight gave an angry, whimpering squeak as he balled onto his aching spark.

The medic sighed and shook his helm helplessly, while he put yet another additive to the infusion, one that was said to be able to strengthen sparks. They have already tried the best known ones and although they helped a little, their effect was always gone as Starflight got his next frame and the spark immediately signaled its inability to support it. He felt desperately sorry for the small mechling who spent more time in the hospital than outside it, being a sparkling still that he was. No matter what his Creators believed or wanted, he could probably never fulfill their dreams. If he survived at all…

* * *

**Youngling**

Starflight grew adept in time to hide the spark flares and fluctuations and their effect on him. The pain that would put many grown mechs into intensive care, hardly even registered on his face and frame any more. He hated how his Carrier flinched and put on his 'guilty' face whenever he showed the pain they were causing him. He hated how his Sire would look at him discontented, like he could help at how he turned out. He hated the upcoming upgrade with a passion because it would make his condition worse again. But he hated most the world and Primus that forced him into this position.

But he loved flying. He inherited that totally from his Sire, an immensely rich grounder merchant who came to love, then became obsessed by fliers during his dealings between Iacon and Vos. He'd moved to Vos, into a prestigious tower formerly reserved only for the fliers and managed his whole business from there; and he even acquired one of the rare jetpacks for himself that allowed grounders to taste flight. He wanted to bond with a flier too, but as none would have him, he settled with one of the rare half-breds, a sad, little mech with small wings but no working thrusters or flight systems – and hoped that their son would turn out to be flier-sparked.

Which he did – barely. His spark's spin was at the absolute minimum for a flier frame and at first his Sire found no medic that recommended to put his son's spark into a flier frame, certainly not at the first upgrade. Maybe not ever, the more conservative ones suggested. But there was no way to dissuade him from his dreams that he wanted to come true in his creation. He named his sparkling Starflight and paid richly for a medic who was unscrupulous enough to make the upgrade the way he wanted, put the small spark into a flier frame. Of course the young spark couldn't take it - and as some of the more honest doctors expressed, it might have damaged it irreversibly.

But his Sire wouldn't want to hear them suggesting to spare the sparkling the constant pain and put him into a small, more manageable general frame, to ease off the strain on his spark – not even temporarily. He was determined to have a flier son and trusted that his wealth could buy any treatment that Starflight would need to strengthen and grow into his proper frame. He never spared any expenses, that was for sure, the youngling mused in himself; most medics never even heard of some of the most ridiculously expensive treatments and medicines that he managed to acquire. Some of them said that a number of Iacon's and Vos' medical researchers made a handsome living on him alone, developing newer and newer procedures for spark treatments.

The weakness of his spark not only pained Starflight constantly, but considerably slowed down his development into adulthood too. The others who were sparked at the same time and as a sparkling were in nurseries together were already full-fledged adults, while he was still a frame away from his last one. The numerous treatments and experimental procedures did help somewhat, at least to shore up his spark for the next upgrade, which then would destroy all advancement he made again. He still hated it all. But even since he could decide what frame he wanted, even despite the pain and everything – he still wanted a flier one each time. After all he went through, he didn't want to give it up. He couldn't. His spark was flier enough for that at least. He was determined enough.

* * *

**Seekerling**

The mood was tense in the house all orn. Starflight locked himself into his room after refueling, because he couldn't watch his Sire's helplessly fuming face and his Carrier's hopelessly sad one any more. The school they were waiting an answer from, was literally the last one available for a flier – all the others catered only for grounders. They'd all known that he'd get no admission to the prestigious Flight Academy, but they had hoped that a smaller, mid-level flight-school would accept him. No such luck though… the politely refusing messages came one after the other until Starflight's hardly even existing confidence was totally obliterated. Now, he was down to the last and if that school didn't accept him, then he would not be allowed to fly at all, despite of all the pain he's gone through to achieve it.

His optics dimmed as he accessed the message that came in. He read it once, twice, three times… and he shouted as loud as he could while running out of his room to jump at his Sire's – by then slightly smaller than his – frame babbling _yesyesyesfrag!yes_ incessantly. He was accepted at last. In their joy of that they both ignored that it was probably more thanks to his Sire's generous donation to the school than his scores. Nor did the school cared apparently; it was full of half-breds, little, weak and stupid fliers, the riff-raff of Vos really, most of whom have never learned to fly straight, much less do maneuvers of any kind; even safe takeoff and landing was a real challenge for them to learn. That being the barest minimum that the Vos Flight Board required for safety reasons from anyone with wings in the city who wanted a flying license.

Still it was a flight school, and the teachers soon learned that one certain flier might have had the worst scores to begin with, but he certainly did his best to make them better. Starflight – and he seriously considered to change that pompous designation, since he was not and would never be space-flight capable, but never actually got around to do it – was one of those few who grow slowly but who get better even far after anyone gave up on him. His spark too strengthened once he had no more upgrades to burden it with, and the continuous flares and fluctuations have mostly ceased to plague him. His scores got better all the time, until he was an adequate if not a good flier; never one to be able to call himself a Seeker, but good enough so that looking back to his younglinghood, he could say that it was worth it.

He also got a name for himself as a troublemaker and ill-mannered brat; he passionately hated the world that put him into the position he was in, belonging to the higher circles because of his Sire but an outsider too, a wannabe Seeker, an upstart who didn't know his place. He hated the barely masked disdain of his Sire's Seeker business-partners and the often outright torture that their creations put him through. He was expected to socialize with them, while they wanted to have no wing of him around them. It became outright unbearable when they started to form Trines and bonds and he was driven away from all of them rudely, often physically. He grew from frustrated and angry to bitter, then turned hysterical and violent. He paid their rudeness back by being even more vulgar. He would have paid back the beatings too if he could, but they were stronger individually and had the numbers on him too; so he resorted to words to express his opinion of them as loudly and obnoxiously as he could.

He was the smallest kind of aircraft possible – although he loved the flying-wing design and it gave him a little individuality and something to be proud of, even as it made learning to transform a real challenge. And while he watched enviously the proud tetrajets fly above, he had that much of a self-criticism to know that those were truly and forever outside of his spark and abilities. He was also fairly much shunned in the snobbish Vosian society, even though he was Vosian born and a flier from a wealthy family – the only recognition he got was thanks to his unique design, courtesy of once again to his Sire's wealth and connections. The war, when it came of course washed away most of those prejudices and distinctions, until the final catastrophe that ended it all; Starflight didn't have even a single vorn to enjoy being a full-fledged jet before it came.

* * *

**Seeker**

The news from the destruction of Vos reached him on the way from Iacon to home; suddenly the air was full of radio messages, targeting noise, orders, command, encrypted signals, shots and explosions of every description – and empty of fliers who landed where they were, shell-shocked hearing the news or crashing as bondmates and families got deactivated, bonds torn asunder. Once he arrived there, he couldn't even go close to the city – the immense heat of the smoldering, melting, smoking ruins far exceeded his design specifications. The city center emitted noxious fumes for vorns afterwards, the melted, charred remains of the once proud spires slowly crumbling into the tortured ground. There was little chance for anyone but the fastest ones to escape, and none whatsoever from the center, where his creators used to live, in a prestigious tower apartment.

Mute from shock but raging inside, he joined to the few who worked in the outer rings, searching for survivors, materials and energon wherever they still could. They all lost everything they used to own; Starflight idly wondered if he should try to claim his Sire's business assets in Iacon, but after learning that it was the Senate who ordered the bombing, he realized that they would probably not even let him close to the city, much less claim his property. The economy of the whole planet soon collapsed anyway, with the two warring factions refusing to trade between them, or even accept the remaining few neutrals to do so. Even those who still had credits could hardly buy anything any more; the old ways were destroyed but the war-economy hasn't been built up yet.

The fliers mostly remained in the refugee camp near Vos, even after Megatron declared war openly and started to organize his army that he called Decepticons. But he didn't let the Seekers mourn for long; his recruiters came to entice them to his army in numbers, promising them everything from revenge till the eventual rebuilding of their beloved city. Every orn more and more fliers believed his promises and left, joining the army and swearing loyalty to him. Starflight was among the last ones. He had no illusions about his abilities and fighting air battles required better ones that he had – but there were simply no other avenues to try. The plain fact was that not even neutrals trusted the fliers any more – the Senate's propaganda that depicted them as mindless war-machines worked all too well.

So the time came when he, too nodded his helm to a recruiter, input his designation and specs to a datapad – taking the liberty of calling himself a Seeker for the first time in his life, as the grounders couldn't tell the difference - and followed him to the training camp, like those few others who had no previous military training. He was fitted with weapons and taught how to use them from the air and on the ground. It was of course a challenge to him, to fly in formation or shoot missiles at targets, but he was used to challenges and with determination he managed to pass the required objectives. His anger and rudeness, already muted somewhat by the shock was crushed further by the harsh and rough instructors and smoldered only inside him.

It was during the training that one instructor discovered some unexpected properties of his unique frame. He was practically undetectable by normal sensors and with a spark-sign masker and some sound-dampening of his engines he could move in the dark night air like a ghost, stealthily weaving in and out of enemy lines just to show that he could. Obviously, it was the Intelligence Division then who drafted him after the basic training was finished – and he was promptly whisked away to another camp, a hidden, secret one to learn the spying business.

* * *

**Spy**

It was just a crash course really; since he was not expected to actually sneak into an Autobot base – his role would not be spying but covert reconnaissance and occasionally carrying spies in and out from Autobot territory. He learned where the main bases, radio and sensor stations, settlements and fortifications were and how they all operated, to be able to avoid them and in general detection. He learned to identify other mechs to class and individual from the slightest of clues as well as stationed and moving weaponry. As consequence he probably knew the Autobot army members one by one better than some of their soldiers and far better than most Decepticons. Soon enough he was sent for recon missions and proved to be as good at those as he promised; as the Autobots did not possess fliers, he only rarely needed to actually fight and mostly he went unnoticed by them.

The occasional tandem flights were a bit more dangerous; carrying other mechs taxed his smaller frame and engines, even though spies and saboteurs were smaller than average Decepticons too. Of course it was one of these that got him captured; the mech he carried was careless and discovered, so when it was time for his extraction at the rendezvous point Autobots awaited them with drawn and primed weapons. They stood no chance against them and Starflight didn't even try to escape; he saw the anti-aircraft guns and preferred to have a chance, no matter how slim to being shot down.

His short career as a spy ended as fast as anything that was good in his life, he thought angrily – Primus, that slagger had something badly against him, he was sure. In a dark cell, shivering nervously from being locked up his anger broke its dams again and Starflight cursed the guards and interrogators with the vilest swears he knew, whenever they came in. They hacked his processor for the info he had as spec ops and after that he could only whine for orns – but he even whimpering he told curses at them still. When he was finally put to stasis and transported to the moon-base, all the guards were relieved to have quiet in the prison.

* * *

**Gestalt**

"He's got a damaged spark."

"That's not good. How much?"

"Hmm… it seems old damage. Let me check his memories… yes, it is old damage. Unadvised upgrade into a flier frame, spark-flares, fluctuations; but lessening and disappearing after his final upgrade."

"Do you think he'll survive the reformat?"

"I think he has a good chance. The spark seems strong enough and the damage is long healed."

"All right then. You know, I'm almost tempted to retain this frame of his. I've never seen any such before."

"The flying wing configuration? It is certainly rare. If we modify it to look different a bit, then we can… well, he needs something smaller than the others anyway."

They worked on the plans again, tweaking them as they acquired the fliers one by one, tailoring the final design to their individual characteristics, while changing them so they could combine and work together. Because once the process was finished, the five fliers would never know aloneness again; they would be constantly connected, feeling what each of them felt, know what each of them knew. Some of the scientists were worried about the widely diverging personalities and the possible emotional baggage they would carry on to the gestalt; they knew that no matter the reformat, the sparks will retain some core attributes that they cannot calculate with.

But if the stolen plans were any indication, the gestalt link that would connect them was so strong that it would create a brotherhood among them that could outweigh any personal differences and balance for the danger of insanity that came from the reformatting process. They had all hoped that it was so – the Decepticon gestalts that they knew of were certainly close-knit groups of widely differing individuals. Since they had no more detailed info they had to be content with that; and now, that they had all the required fliers, they could finalize the process and start to implement it.

The procedure didn't go without some hiccups. The most dangerous was the one who woke up while being dismantled and fought against the process with all the spark and the remaining processor was able to. Other, minor alerts peppered the rest of the reformats too, but they were able to correct those all in time. The scientists, medics, technicians and psychologists watched them with avid curiosity as they were awakened and their first orns as they realized who they were and slowly settled into the carefully prepared roles.

They got some surprises, as it was expected. Fireflight did turn out to be slightly damaged in the processor and they couldn't fully fix him ever after; but his brothers, especially the best flier, Air Raid were so protective of him that even the psychologists, the most tenacious of the medical staff gave up on him after a while. Silverbolt's fear of heights didn't surprise those who saw his memories; they had hoped to get rid of it, but spark science was an experimental science at best still. He did compensate for it with being a conscientious, caring leader and elder for the young team and a perfect central unit for the combiner form.

But the anger that almost permeated the air around the last one, Slingshot caught them all as a surprise. His drive to prove himself and his worth was equal to that of Air Raid's, but his frame and abilities were far behind and it caused a great rivalry between them that took time to heal. That contest, coupled with some unfortunate derogatory comments from the less knowing staff sometimes drove the smallest jet into fits of such rage that even his brothers were tempted to leave him alone at times to blow off the steam that seemed to fuel him.

Slingshot still hated the world – on general principles now.

* * *

Thank you all who reviewed, alerted or fav'd the story. I really like how this originally one-shot turned out and I'm glad that others liked it too. :-)


End file.
